


a morning's reprise

by orchestra



Series: newfoundland [1]
Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: M/M, just fannypacks and archaeology brushes soon to make their appearance, no shepherds or seraphs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchestra/pseuds/orchestra
Summary: in which sorey pursues his side gig as a freeform poet





	a morning's reprise

When Mikleo wakes, it is not, to his pleasant surprise, to the skittering of squirrels on sodden soil, the clang and creak of cogs, or the whistling winds winding ‘round whittled walls. It is instead to cotton sheets smelling faintly of lavender and sea, a gentle firmness along the back of his legs, and oh, yes, coffee.

He is bleary-eyed. He is loose-limbed. He is absolutely refreshed. But definitely not refreshed enough for such elaborate internal alliteration first thing in the morning.

“How’s that? I don’t think it’s too bad for an opening stanza. Sets the scene, don’t you think?”

Ah, there’s the mastermind. A cleansing wave swells and comes to a flourishing crash in his toes and Mikleo lets out a little sound as his left foot twitches. “A tangible mouthful, I’d say. Where are we?”

There’s a muted rustle to his left, and then Mikleo feels three shades of warmth hit a dip in his back that had been shielded all this time, he presumes, by a body just comfortably larger than his own. Another five notches as a hand rests on his arm. Mikleo feels the sensation waxing again.

“We’re back in Ladylake. I can’t believe we completely missed a ruin last time!” The hand leaves, and Mikleo kicks his ankle for feeling peckish for that touch again. “Messenger birds really are something else. Apparently, Alisha had only sent it off four days ago and it was able to find us in the middle of Malory. I wonder if we should get our own bird.”

Mikleo is in a good enough mood to entertain the thought. “We could train it to carry us across ravines or up cliffs.”

A soft laugh. “Genius. I was thinking of fruit picking or delivering parcels, but avian flight would make our journeys a lot easier.” The bed springs squeak and Mikleo closes his eyes. “Oh, let’s try this one. Hold on.

A foray, one’s furlough, beyond  
The cat’s envy and water’s wishes,  
Atop wisdom’s wings  
To a precipice fit for two.”

Mikleo hums. “Not a bad take. The free form carries the sense of freedom well.” A satisfied sniff in return. “Not sure what wisdom you’re referring to, though.”

“Hey!” Mikleo wriggles his toes a bit to bring them up to speed again, and then he feels ten strong fingers wrap around them. He laughs, flails his legs a bit, and the offending hands jump to his ankles, his knees, somewhere along his calf, then to the sides of his stomach. Mikleo yelps and writhes until he is thoroughly tangled in the soft sheets and his toes are peeping out to greet the morning sun.

“Sorey,” Mikleo breathes. The smug shit replies in falsetto. “I’m hungry.”

There’s a thunderous rumble. He is, it seems, very hungry.

“Hear you loud and clear, captain,” Sorey laughs, and Mikleo opens his eyes resolutely this time, chances a look at his friend who sits comfortably on the edge of their bed, one knobby knee drawn up to his chest, hair ruffled from the tousle, cheeks and nose lightly dusted in a perfect blend of sunrise and youth, a juxtaposition to the deep emerald of two kind eyes gazing back at him. In short, a piece of art. Actually, Mikleo wonders if he might have a knack for this himself. “Rose and Dezel said they’ll be in town. Let’s go catch up with them.”

“Sorey.”

Sorey doesn’t break their gaze as he quietly settles back down on his side, arm propping up that silly-smiled head of his. Mikleo follows every purposed movement and pause. And now, a bird’s cadence, soft puffs of yesterday’s linen, fresh tomatoes and loaves for sale. Sorey still smiles. Nope, never mind, Mikleo was never good with this improvisation thing.

“Good morning, Mikleo.” Sorey leans forward and presses his lips fully to Mikleo’s. Elderflowers. Cream. Coffee. “I’ll grab you a cup. Be right back.”

Before Sorey can break whatever crazy magic has wrested them on this spring morning, Mikleo brings them together again, lip against lip against shy tongue and sure moans and whimsical teeth. He breathes almost embarrassingly harshly through his nose as they part. “Just half a spoon of sugar, please.”

Sorey rolls his eyes with a slick smile (Mikleo’s heart thrums). “Yes, my muse.”

It’s only when the door quietly shuts that Mikleo gives a bit of a shout and tumbles to the floor and no bird could ever carry his spirits higher than this very moment up on cloud nine. It’s easy, exact, elementary, and no stanza or refrain is necessary. Poetry be damned.

He’s in love.

**Author's Note:**

> myyyy god so i just finished the water trial. and i'm bumbling i'm fumbling with all this emotion and desire to write. but what? i don't know!!! but i had a pretty beautiful weekend and wanted to throw something together in the two hours i had before bedtime (do you find yourself becoming more regimented as you grow older? because fuck man)  
> this came about after i made a note about sorey and his goal of writing poetry mentioned in some skit, and after i copied down all the lines of ashura's journal. ugh. UGH! i'm in love with the idea of sorey getting all caught up in stupid technicalities and then tossing them all aside to put together the words he thinks best express whatever silly or serious train he's on  
> anyway i guess this was an alternate universe of sorts in which they're just traveling archaeologists or historians or something. i think this is the start of a brand new collection  
> i love these two a lot


End file.
